


you wear white and i'll wear out the words i love you

by MagicInTheNight



Category: Lizzie Bennet Diaries
Genre: F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-09
Updated: 2013-03-09
Packaged: 2017-12-04 19:29:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,849
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/714215
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MagicInTheNight/pseuds/MagicInTheNight
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They stand there for a few more seconds as though they have all the time in the world, as though a frantic Mrs Bennet isn’t darting around the corridors of the hotel gabbling about bouquets and buttonholes and grandbabies, as though he isn’t getting married in about thirty minutes, and then he turns to face her properly.</p>
            </blockquote>





	you wear white and i'll wear out the words i love you

**Author's Note:**

> So this is the first thing I've posted on here and the first Lizzie Bennet fanfiction I've written. I was going to resist, content to read all the amazing stuff on here to feed my obsession, but I couldn't shake this idea out of my head.
> 
> I've not edited, it's not been beta-ed, I don't know if it's any good. But I couldn't stand to see it get written and then saved on my computer only to be found when I need to clear out my hard-drive, long after LBD is over, having been read by nobody but me.

When Gigi slips into the room, she shuts the door quickly and quietly, pressing her back up against the wood and breathing a sigh of relief as she makes eye contact with him in the mirror. 

He doesn’t need to ask why.

“And how is Mrs Bennet coping this morning?” 

As he talks, his gaze flicks away from that of his younger sister and down to the two ends of the bow tie around his neck that are waiting to be knotted.

“You know, everyone kept telling me how crazy she would get but I just couldn’t believe it would be as...” The gesture that Gigi makes in place of words -- a sort of arm waving, finger waggling, wide-eyed maneuver -- doesn’t really signify anything at all, it doesn’t paint much of a picture, but that serves to make it all the more accurate. William can think of no words or gestures that could precisely describe the scene that he imagines to be unfolding on the other side of the door, away from the one room that’s been roped off as his sanctuary, but if he had been forced to come up with a description it may have looked something similar.

At his knowing nod, Gigi steps away from the door with a shake of her head, her bare feet allowing her to silently cross the floor until she comes to stand a few paces behind him. Again, he raises his gaze to meet hers and is greeted with a smile -- not the knowing smirk that he received when he returned from Netherfield all those years ago having broadcast his newfound relationship status on YouTube, nor the huge beaming grin that he’d gotten in response to stumbling over his words while asking if she would mind horribly if he used their mother’s engagement ring to ask one of the most important questions he’d ever ask, but a demure curve of her lips and a glitter in her eyes and he’s never seen her wear this expression before but he thinks it’s nice -- it is nice, right?

“How are you coping this morning?”

She rolls her eyes, tilting her head to the left. “Shouldn’t I be asking you that question?”

An eyebrow arches and he can’t prevent the half-smirk from passing over his face. “I’d hardly think you’d have to.”

Her smile becomes more pronounced, this time she flashes her teeth. For a second he’s transported back to another time, another smile. She’s fourteen. She’s wearing braces. She’s in the back of the car and he’s sitting next to her and she’s smiling at something that his mother, in the passenger seat, is saying, and their father’s driving and then he’s back in the present, jerked out of his memory by her words: “That bad, huh?”

“Is it too late to elope?”

“I think Mrs Bennet would have a heart attack.”

“Ah. Then I suppose I had better see it through.”

“Sorry.”

“I’ll survive.”

Gigi moves forward to stand next to him and, before he can react in any way, she loops her arms around his neck, leaning her head against his upper arm. They stand like that for a few seconds, watching their mirror images in silence, and it’s like even though they both know what the other is thinking, it’s all about which one of them can bring themselves to say it first.

It’s only when she steps up to the plate that he realizes that there was never any question over which one of them it would be. Of course it would be Gigi. She, out of the both of them, is more able to vocalize herself, more able to admit to having feelings, more confident about letting people know what she’s thinking when she’s thinking it. He’s always envied that about her. He prefers to simmer under the surface, doesn’t like the thought of wearing his heart on his sleeve, has the social skills of an “agoraphobic lobster” -- and that comparison is coming from one of his best friends. No, Gigi had to be the one to say it aloud and she knew it too. So, she does.

“I wish mom and dad were here to see this.”

The words stretch around the room, around them, lingering in the air as though they might be able to provide some comfort to the now-familiar pang of sorrow that comes whenever their parents are mentioned. The pause that follows them is palpable too, and the glitter in her eyes is back, or maybe it never left, and then he smiles at his sister, at his sister’s reflection, and she smiles back.

“Me too,” is his reply, and it’s sincere but it’s simple because there’s an itching in his throat that is threatening to make something more of itself unless he can reign it in.

They stand there for a few more seconds as though they have all the time in the world, as though a frantic Mrs Bennet isn’t darting around the corridors of the hotel gabbling about bouquets and buttonholes and grandbabies, as though he isn’t getting married in about thirty minutes, and then he turns to face her properly.

“You look beautiful, Gigi,” he notes, appreciating for the first time the fact that Lizzie clearly managed to overrule her mother in the inevitable bridesmaid dress arguments. He may have come to accept that many of his presuppositions about the Bennet family were mildly inaccurate, but he hadn’t been able to shake the image of Southern Belle fashioned bridesmaids out of his mind, petticoats and all. He should have known better than to think his wife-to-be would have given in so easily.

His sister smiles, looking down at the olive satin that, on their dress shopping trip, Lizzie had picked out almost instantly -- it would match Gigi’s eyes, compliment the redheads, Charlotte looked good in almost anything -- and smoothing it out underneath her fingers. “Thanks, William.”

For a few seconds neither of them need to speak, and he’s acutely aware that this moment is the most settled he’s felt all morning -- all week, even. That’s not to say he’s not nervous about the rest of the day. The multitude of things that could go wrong are taking it in turns to dance in the forefront of his mind and he probably won’t breathe completely easily until the last glass of champagne has been drained, but this moment of serenity is just what he needs.

He wonders if Lizzie is having a similar moment of peace.

“How is -- ”

“She’s fine,” Gigi interrupts, rolling her eyes again. She always could read him far too well. “Though I think if you suggested an elopement right this second she’d most probably take you up on it.”

And then she looks around the room and the bridge of her nose wrinkles in almost-confusion. “Why are you by yourself? Isn’t your best man supposed to be here, giving you a last minute pep talk? Tying your bow tie for you? Offering you a swig from the hip flask he’s keeping in his jacket pocket?”

“Ah.” Darcy looks around too, though the action is futile; of course he knows that Bing isn’t in their company. “Well, the job description didn’t quite account for the best man also having to take on the duty of caring for his heavily pregnant wife. And Fitz is best placed where he is.”

“Showing people where to sit?”

“Keeping Catherine away from all members of the Bennet family.”

“Good plan.”

“I thought so.” His gaze drifts to the clock on the wall and his eyebrows raise infinitesimally at the time. “They’ll be sending a party out in search for you soon, I suspect.”

Gigi spins around and takes note of the time too, her reaction much more visible. “Oh, shoot! I’ll...” Swiveling back around to face him, she gestures over her shoulder toward the door and trails off, searching for the right words, hoping they’ll come and hover right in front of her so that she can pluck them out of the air. When they do no such thing, her shoulders slump slightly and she twists her face into a side-smile. “Wish me luck.”

He laughs and cocks an eyebrow in her direction as she backs away to the exit of the room. “Shouldn’t you be saying that to me?”

The demure smile reappears for a fraction of a second, but this time it morphs into first the knowing smirk -- “William, please. You don’t need luck. You’ve been ready for this day from the day she said she loved you back.” -- and then the full-wattage grin. “But good luck anyway.”

He doesn’t get a chance to reply; her hand is on the door handle and she’s slipping out of the room as quickly and quietly as she came in before he can even summon up a word.

Turning back to the mirror, William Darcy pulls in a great breath of air and then exhales heavily as he examines the figure reflected back at him.

The mental image of himself completely forgetting his vows does a somersault somewhere within his cerebral cortex. He shoves it away, flexing his fingers three times before reaching up to finally do the knot of his bow tie.

The door opens again.

“How is Jane?” he asks, not tearing his eyes away from the shoelace knot he’s in the process of tying, assuming that Bing has re-entered the room.

“Fine,” his companion answers, but their voice is decidedly un-Bing-like. “Bing’s with her now.”

Darcy stops tying the bow but doesn’t remove his gaze from where it is. His reply follows a long hesitation, in which neither occupant of the room moves an inch, like the world has been left on pause. “Isn’t this bad luck?”

“Only if you peek.”

“Are you testing me?”

“Maybe.”

“What happens if I fail?”

A hum of consideration sounds from the corner of the room. In his peripheral vision he can see her reflection, but he refuses to focus on it. She’s a blur of white and auburn; he can’t make out details or shapes or edges, and for a fraction of a second he feels a bit like he’s back in that room at Collins & Collins, three-and-a-half years ago, when he misguidedly confessed to loving a woman that he barely knew, a woman that he had only a blurred and hazy image of. Most of the time he’d say that no more was that the case, that he now knew everything that there was to know, but sometimes -- like in this second right here where he can’t even see a perfect outline of her -- he wonders if he’ll ever be able to say that, if anyone can ever say that.

He manages to align his thoughts well enough to offer up some kind of reason for pardoning. “We’ve already paid for everything.”

“Hmm.”

“Everyone is already here.”

She sighs, an exaggerated sound that seems to echo in his eardrums. 

It makes him smile, which prompts his final excuse. “How would you break the news to your mother?”

Lizzie tuts and then sighs again. “Ah. Well, I can see how that would be a problem. I suppose we better see it through then.”

Darcy can’t decide whether she knows about his conversation with Gigi or if her wording is mere coincidence. He can, (and does) decide that it doesn’t matter.

“Would I be correct in presuming she has no idea of your whereabouts?”

“She’s distracted with pinning Lydia’s hair up. For the third time.”

“Why did her previous attempts fail?”

“Lydia doesn’t want it pinned up.”

He hasn’t stopped staring at the reflection of his hands, his knuckles wrapped tightly in both ends of his silk tie. “I see.”

“You’re not allowed to see.” He can hear the smirk in her teasing lilt and quirks an eyebrow at it, knowing that even though he can’t see her reaction, she can see his perfectly.

“Oh, I’m acutely aware of that fact.”

“I just wanted to talk to you.” Her voice sounds apologetic now, and he can imagine her chewing on her bottom lip as she waits for his reply.

“I -- ” He disentangles his hands from the bow tie and turns around. She cries out, not loudly, lightly, but he snaps his eyes shut before he’s gone the full three-hundred-and-sixty degrees. There’s a small pause, and then he hums discontentedly. “I imagined that this would make it less awkward. That isn’t quite so.”

She laughs, and though he can’t see her he can feel her moving closer to him, hear the rustle of her dress, smell the perfume that he’s become accustomed to in the years that they’ve been together, the years in which she’s been right under his nose. He feels her arms snake around his neck, knitting together at the base of his skull. “I love you.”

It’s amazing how he can still feel a sense of disbelief at those words, those words that should be so commonplace after three years of hearing them, and for a moment it becomes a lot more difficult to force his eyes to stay shut. “I love you too.”

She’s quiet for a moment and they stand there, arms wrapped around each other, hiding from the chaos that is reigning outside with his aunt and her mom and Lydia and her hairpins, holding onto today’s last opportunity for a calm second. He doesn’t know how much time passes -- it could have been anywhere from ten seconds to five minutes (and he’s not brave enough to open his eyes and check the clock) -- but he doesn’t feel quite ready for Lizzie to break the silence when she inevitably does.

“Remind me never to do this again.”

His laughter reverberates through his chest -- he can feel that she feels it because she clutches a little tighter, just for a second. “I will. Almost constantly.”

“Good.” She steps back, away from him. Her perfume lingers but she doesn’t. He may not have his eyes open, but he can sense where she is, moving towards the door, watching him all the way. 

For a second he considers opening his eyes -- tradition be damned! -- but in the same way that they’ve developed the uncanny ability to finish each other’s sentences, she senses this stray thought and banishes it. “Don’t you even think about it, Darcy.”

Describing the smile that spreads over his face in that moment as ‘goofy’ isn’t wholly accurate; William Darcy, after all, does not do goofy. He does a rather apt impression of it though, standing in a reserved room at the Fairmont Hotel (a compromise awarded to Mrs Bennet as long as Lizzie got to pick the menu and there was no mention of grandchildren for the duration of the day), his bow tie not done up, his eyes closed so as not to see his bride, all the while thinking that the next time they speak like this, just the two of them, she’ll be a Darcy too.

“You’ll see me soon,” she adds, and her voice is far enough away now that he knows he wouldn’t be able to reach out and touch her.

“I certainly hope so, Elizabeth Bennet.”

When he hears the door open and close he silently counts to three before opening his eyes, not because he’s worried that she’s testing him further but because once he opens his eyes it’s all systems go and he’d just like to pause. Just as he finally opens them to let the world back in, the door opens once more and this time it really is Bing.

“Fitz is practically begging you to start,” the best man says as he closes the door behind him.

Darcy laughs, turning back to the mirror and actually managing to complete the knot on his bow tie this time.

“You nervous?”

Pulling his jacket from where it was draped neatly over the back of one of the chairs, William doesn’t offer a reply. He doesn’t know what the answer is, because he’s a plethora of things and nervous could be one of them but there’s just no way of distinguishing.

Bing laughs and pats him on the back as Will comes to rest opposite him, in front of the closed door. “I know that feeling.”

"Is this a last minute pep-talk?" Darcy asks, as his friend reaches for the handle of the door.

"Do you need a last minute pep-talk?"

"Do you have a hip flask in your jacket pocket?"

"Uh..."

The look of disappointment on Darcy's face is entirely fake, and he's sure that Bing will be able to tell (he's not renowned for his acting skills, after all). The door is open and the coast is clear and as the two men walk down the corridor to the room of the ceremony, Will gives a small snort of laughter at the thought that has just crossed his mind. "I'd be willing to bet that Fitz does."

\---

William Darcy stands at the end of the aisle, his back to the doorway, his best friends standing beside him, and (he’s fairly certain) a room full of people analyzing his every move. But, for once in his life he doesn’t care about that because he’s ready for this. He’s ready for all of this. And Gigi was right; he’s been ready for an awfully long time.

The room goes completely quiet on a few occasions -- they are, naturally, running behind schedule, no doubt because Lydia needed to have her hair pinned up for the fourth time, or because a bouquet was misplaced, or because Lizzie had to dispose of a body -- but the third time that silence falls Bing catches his eye and Darcy knows that this isn’t another false alarm. This is it. 

The look that passes over his best friend’s face is, he’s sure, one of reassurance, one meant to quell nerves, but the truth is that William doesn’t need it. He’s not nervous. He doesn’t need to be reassured. This is it.

Tradition says that he’s not supposed to turn around, but then it’s a wonder tradition still matters, what with Lizzie sneaking in to see him this morning. He might have been able to resist looking at her then, but he’s not so rule-abiding as to care too much about convention now. 

Jane and Charlotte lead the way. Jane’s dress has been the cause of many headaches because of her burgeoning bump, nobody really knowing what size she’d be on the big day, but her fashion experience has managed to avert disaster. Charlotte grins at him, not pausing in her journey down the makeshift aisle as she sends him a wink, but he doesn’t have time to smile back because his gaze is dragged to the next two girls who have just stepped into view.

He hears an affronted gasp to his right and draws the conclusion that the last time the Bennet matriarch laid eyes on her youngest daughter her hair was pinned to perfection, but it isn’t anymore -- the vibrant red color of Lydia’s hair curls across her shoulders. As she catches him looking at her, she sticks her tongue out and it isn’t lost on Darcy that once upon a time he would have seen such an action as a symbol of impropriety. Now, although he rolls his eyes, it brings a smile to his face. He thinks that she might return his smile, but he wouldn’t be able to swear on it because when he takes his first look at his sister walking towards him, his first proper look, it almost hurts, because she’s never looked more like their mother than in this moment and again, again, he wishes that his parents were here. 

He doesn’t know what he believes about higher powers, afterlife, reincarnation, spirits, but if there is any ounce of truth in any of it then he hopes that they’re somewhere here, somewhere in the room, somewhere watching, if only to see the woman that Gigi has grown up to be. He’s proud of his little sister -- he should say that more than he does -- and he hopes that he’s not imagining the pride in him that is shown in her eyes as she gets closer.

There’s a part of him that wants to hold the gaze of his sister until she’s finished her journey so that he can imprint this picture onto his memory, but it’s at that moment that Lizzie steps into view of the congregation and the blur of white and auburn becomes a sharpened image in his mind and this is the picture that he wants to keep forever.

She’s looking around the room; he sees her smile at Maria Lu and then at Brandon, he watches her eyes avert quickly from Caroline's scrutinizing gaze and notes that she doesn’t even look in the direction of his aunt. And then, finally, she looks straight ahead, at him, and he notices everything and nothing at the same time; everything about her, every slight change in her smile, every new laughing crease around her eyes, and nothing about anything else that is going on in the room around them. He’s aware that she’s moving towards him, but it still feels like a surprise when she’s standing right next to him, close enough to speak to, close enough to touch.

He does both -- as Charlotte steps forward to free her of her bouquet of flowers and while the registrar organizes himself, Lizzie takes his hand, a smile tugs at his lips and he takes the opportunity to mutter: “I must confess that you look a lot more beautiful now that I can actually see you.”

She quirks an eyebrow. “What, you weren’t imagining me as beautiful?”

Old William Darcy would have stumbled at such an accusation. He would have retreated into his lobster shell and stuttered an attempt at a remedy that would have probably been more insulting than remedial if his past experience with Lizzie Bennet was anything to go by. 

Of course, things are entirely different between them now. Lizzie doesn’t hate him anymore, clearly, and is more receptive to his sense of humor. She’s more willing to poke fun than take offense, and she loves him and he loves loves loves her and that in itself is a big part of the reason that ‘old Darcy’ is not ‘current Darcy’. But he has to give some credit to his sister, credit to Bing, credit to Fitz, credit to Lydia and to Jane and to Lizzie’s parents -- even Mrs Bennet, who has probably had more of an impact than any of them would ever really like to imagine. All of the people gathered here today are responsible for the fact that Darcy is able to quirk an eyebrow right back, push his chin defiantly forward and mutter (his comment sliding in just before the man in front of them clears his throat to begin the proceedings) a retort, a retort that Lizzie can’t help but throw her head back and laugh at:

“Oh, decent enough.”


End file.
